


i just want you out of those clothes (because they're mine, damn it)

by LydiaOfNarnia



Series: five times, one time prompts [3]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: M/M, bill needs to put on some pants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 19:23:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11858061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydiaOfNarnia/pseuds/LydiaOfNarnia
Summary: The fault might lie with Babe, if he’d been idiot enough to leave his clothes lying around where anyone could pick them up. The thing is, he didn’t. Babe doesn’t get the chance to leave articles of clothing lying around anywhere except his disaster zone of a room, and if he somehow manages to leave something behind, it never stays there for long.That's why he can't understand why people keep turning up inhisclothes.





	i just want you out of those clothes (because they're mine, damn it)

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, the characters in this fic are based off of their fictional portrayals from the miniseries Band of Brothers, and I mean no disrespect to the real-life veterans!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [renelemaires](http://renelemaires.tumblr.com/)!

The fault might lie with Babe, if he’d been idiot enough to leave his clothes lying around where anyone could pick them up. The thing is, he _didn’t_. Bill is anal about keeping laundry in its proper place – “in your drawers or in the basket, the hell is this, rocket science?” Babe doesn’t get the chance to leave articles of clothing lying around anywhere except his disaster zone of a room, and if he somehow manages to leave something behind, it never stays there for long.  


When he traces it back, his friends’ awful track record of pilfering his clothes starts with Julian.

“What the hell are you wearing?” Babe demands, striding into the studio (their glorified term for the rec room they all spend their time in when they want to hide from their responsibilities). His question is accusatory; he doesn’t care. There is no good reason for Julian to be sitting cross-legged on the couch, soaking wet, in nothing but a pair of boxers and a sweatshirt.

Neither articles of clothing belong to him. Babe knows this, because he is the house’s unofficial Laundry Guy. He’s dealt with Julian’s mess of a wardrobe to recognize when his friend is wearing his own clothes and when he isn’t. Right now, he _definitely_ isn’t, because that’s the same sweatshirt Babe wore to the movies a few days ago.

And those boxers… also do not belong to Julian.

“Julian,” he repeats when his friend seems too caught up in his phone to look up at him. “Where did you get those?”

“Hmm?” Julian glances up, looking surprised – as if he’s _just_ noticed Babe’s presence, the faker. He shrugs thin shoulders concealed in Babe’s sweatshirt and leans back into the couch. “I got caught in the rain. These were the only dry things I could find.”

The storm outside is a killer. It swept in out of nowhere, while Babe was lucky enough to be inside the house. He heard Julian stumble through the front door a few minutes later, but he never considered the implications of his friend getting caught in the storm until now.

Staring down Julian, wearing his sweatshirt and his boxers, he’s not sure what to say. A part of him feels defensive; another part feels a little violated. 

“You’re wearing my boxers,” he emphasizes, as if this justifies every baffled emotion swirling through his head.

Julian glances down at them, shrugs, and twists his pale legs beneath him before returning to his game. “I thought these were Bill’s, to be honest.”

Bill doesn’t wear checker-patterned boxers. Bill wears solid colors, the Italian flag, and (on rare occasions) briefs. Babe would love to not have to know this, but now he kind of wishes Julian did.

“Am I…” He pauses, hesitates, wondering if he’s breaking some sort of unspoken friendship rule. Or just a _house_ rule – no one wants Julian going commando on their couch. “Can I ask you to take off my underwear?”

“Sure. You can ask.” Julian sounds almost bored, but when he looks up at Babe, there’s a smirk on his lips. “Don’t mean I’m gonna do it.”

Torn between defeat and fury, Babe styles for the least-offensive option and just stalks away. He doesn’t want to throttle Julian, but if he has to look at him wearing his underwear anymore, he’s not going to be able to be held responsible for what he might do.

He loses this round. At least, he thinks, it’s just one (weird) isolated incident.

* * *

He thinks wrong.

He’s just stepping through the door when he comes face to face with a sight he could have gone his entire life without seeing. (Okay, maybe not – he’s seen it before, and he’s not happy about it but he knows it’s inevitable that he’ll see it many times again before he dies.)

“Dammit, Bill, will ya put some pants on?”

Bill waves a hand over his shoulder, not even bothering to glance up at Babe. He’s laser-focused on running the vacuum back and forth over a particularly stubborn spot in the carpet. He’s been whining about that stain for weeks now, ever since Julian dropped a taco (and then picked it up and at it). Today, he’s finally decided to do something about it.

While dripping wet, wearing absolutely nothing.

Babe shields his eyes and walks straight into the coat rack, because of course he does. It’s that kind of day. “I don’t need to see your bare ass!”

“I didn’t need to haul your stupid scrawny ass up to bed when you got wasted on tequila bombs, tried to go skinny dipping, and hit your head in the pool. Did I? Fuckin’ no, but I did it, because I’m a great goddamn friend.” Bill leans down to train the suction right on the stubborn stain. Babe feels like he’s been dropped into a very screwed up production of Macbeth.

“I swear to god,” he says, still fumbling to figure out where the stairs are with his eyes closed. He’s touching something that might be a fur coat, but could also be Spina’s chest. “If you don’t put some clothes on now I’m calling Frannie.”

“She loves my ass.”

“I’ll take a picture and send it to everyone, then.”

“I’ll strangle you.”

Babe doesn’t even know where his phone is, let alone which direction Bill’s standing. He also doesn’t want something that horrifying on his phone. It might melt, or explode, and none of his awful friends will buy him a new one.

“Bill,” he finally sighs, slumping in defeat. “Just put some pants on. Please.”

Bill considers this question for a long moment (way too long, in Babe’s opinion) before snorting. “There’s a t-shirt and shorts in the bathroom. I saw them when I got out of the shower. Go get ‘em.”

He’s so eager to not have to stare at his friend naked any longer – and, frankly, to have an excuse to leave – that Babe scrambles to the bathroom. He doesn’t look at the clothes he grabs off of the towel rack. All he registers is that they’re a t-shirt and shorts, actual clothing for Bill to wear so he doesn’t traumatize the nice old couple that lives next door. (The curtains were wide open. How the hell could Bill be doing that in full view of the whole neighborhood?)

He makes it back to Bill in record time, and flings the wad of clothes at him like he’s scoring a winning touchdown in the Superbowl. He keeps his eyes screwed shut until he hears the vacuum switch off and Bill sigh.

“There. I’ve got clothes. You happy now, Heffron?”

Babe finally risks opening his eyes, and doesn’t bother stifling his sigh of relief. The shirt is too tight and the shorts are too short, but Bill’s full moon is no longer offending everyone and their mother. Babe is content up until the moment he realizes something that kills and buries his good mood.

“Hey, those are my clothes!”

Bill just casts a wink over his shoulder. “You gave ‘em to me.”

The vacuum switches on again, drowning out Babe’s groan of frustration.  


* * *

Of all the people he expected to stab him in the back, Spina was the most unlikely suspect. Spina is the nicest of them all. He’s loyal. He’s a stand-up guy. He has a closet full of comfy clothes all of his own.

Babe doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this.

“Spina! Buddy, you’ve betrayed me!”

Spina just shrugs, pulling Babe’s baggy sweater (which isn’t quite as baggy on him) tighter around his shoulders. “It’s freakin’ cold, Babe. Sorry.”

The heat has been off all weekend because _someone_ (no one wants to say Bill, but two people pay the bills in this house and Fran has never missed one in her life) forgot to pay the company. This wouldn’t be such a bad thing, except it’s the middle of winter, and Babe is pretty sure humans need warmth to survive. If _someone_ doesn’t get the heat turned back on soon, the rest of the house has made it clear that they’re going to murder that _someone_ and use him as a human fire log.

So Babe can understand why Spina would be wearing a sweater, just not his sweater. “Come on. That’s the one Gene got me for Christmas!”

“Why d’you think I’m wearin’ it now?” Spina demands. “It’s the warmest thing in this goddamn house.”

Gene is from Louisiana, where the coldest they get in winter is still enough to melt ice cubes. His experience of northern winters have been nothing short of a horror story, so he’s become an expert in remaining a human furnace at all costs. He’s always wearing the warmest clothes, and he gives them as gifts too. Gene’s sweater might be the only thing standing between Babe and life as a human snowman, and currently that sweater is on Spina’s ungrateful back.

“Buddy, I love you,” he says, “but take off your clothes.”

Spina wraps his arms tighter around himself. He sees the glint in Babe’s eyes, and he’s ready. “I can’t do that, Babe.”

“Spina –”

“No!”

Spina lets out a yell as Babe tackles him. They both go tumbling off the couch in a ball of flailing limbs, hollering bloody murder all the way. When they hit the floor, it’s a wrestling match. Babe has got a good grip, but Spina’s not going down without a fight. 

They wind up tearing the sweater, messing up the couch, and Babe smacks his head against the coffee table. When the stars clear from his vision, Spina is already sprinting from the room.

Well, at least they exercise is keeping them warm.

* * *

Just as Babe is starting to think he has the worst friends in the world, they still find a way to surprise him.

He steps out of his bathroom in full-on Spiderman regalia. He’s got the suit; the mask; even a tiny miniature “web shooter” that really sprays silly string everywhere. Smokey Gordon’s costume birthday bash is going to be wild, and Babe is ready for it.

He stops cold in the doorway when his eyes land on his two friends, clustered together in the middle of the kitchen. Liebgott is stooped over, his head buried in the fridge, muttering to himself as he paws through their leftovers. Grant has hoisted himself up on the counter, and is swinging his legs while munching on Bill’s favorite potato chips.

They’re both wearing Babe’s clothing.

Grant has stolen Babe’s favorite yellow and orange striped t-shirt, matching it with basketball shorts, with a bright red Phillies hat backwards over his messed-up hair. Liebgott is in a striped button-up, and wears a pair of skinny jeans that do not fit him at all. He has his hair slicked back, and looks all the more uncomfortable for it.

For a second, Babe can only gape. Then he tries to inhale, chokes on air, and remembers how to use his words again. “What the hell are you assholes doin’?”

Chuck raises a nonplussed eyebrow. “What’s it look like? We’re dressed up.”

If he’s being honest, Babe has no clue what the hell it looks like, but he knows one thing for sure. “You raided my closet!”

Liebgott emerges from the fridge, half a pickle hanging out of his mouth. “We’d agreed that we’d all go as each other. I’m Grant, can’t you tell?”

“The correct question,” pipes up Grant, “is what are you wearing?”

Babe glances down at his (amazing) Spider-Man costume, then back up at his friend’s again. His eyes are close to bugging out of his head at this point, but he doesn’t care.

“If you’re Grant,” he says to Liebgott, “why the hell are you in my shirt?”

“Because this guy wouldn’t let me anywhere near his closet.”

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” Grant stares and Liebgott hard, daring him to answer. Liebgott opens his mouth, closes it again, then tries one more time before giving up. Grant smiles. “Not to mention, you’re the one who left your door unlocked.”

“Yeah,” agrees Liebgott. Babe gets a very good view of the half-chewed pickle in his mouth. “Who’s really at fault here?”

Babe gapes at them. His eyes swivel between Grant and Liebgott. He opens his mouth, makes some weird noises, chokes on his own spit, and realizes that nothing he says will make a difference. It’s his own fault for agreeing to do anything with these two in the first place. Great as they are, Babe always winds up the butt monkey in their trio, and even though he doesn’t like it, he also doesn’t know what the hell to do about it.

Finally, he sighs. He’s not going to argue; they’ve got a party to get to, dumb costume arrangement or not. “You like superheroes,” he says, pointing at Liebgott. “Now let’s move, I ain’t gonna be late because of you idiots.”

He storms out of the house, Grant and Liebgott following behind him. Liebgott brings the pickle jar.

* * *

All he wants is a glass of water. A parched throat is the only thing capable of dragging him out of bed after a long, trying day spent learning to kickbox from Toye. (Babe relearned two things that he already knew: he is not made for kickboxing, Joe Toye is a beast.)

Swallowing stings, and his mouth is dry as the Sahara desert. When he finally manages to haul himself out of bed all his muscles protest. He knows he’ll have one nice collection of bruises tomorrow, but he’ll wear them like battle scars. They’ll hurt like a bitch, but the defeat will just be a reminder of why he should avoid getting into the ring with someone who could probably benchpress him. (Not that Babe is one to shrink from a challenge, but Toye is his friend, thereby it’s okay not to want to fight him.)

He stumbles out of his room on feet that feel like lead blocks, and is halfway down the hall when he realizes that he isn’t alone. The hallway light is on, illuminating a figure standing in the doorway of the living room. A head full of curls is silhouetted against the dim light; a black t-shirt hanging just above to the middle of bare thighs. Babe blinks hazily for a moment, brain not quite registering what he’s seeing, before he recognizes the person in front of him.

“Frannie?”

“Babe.” Fran’s silhouette is backlit against the dim hall light. She is frozen in place, torn between looking awkward and guilty. She does a weird side-step to block the living room doorway, which does nothing to disguise the oversized band t-shirt she is wearing. Babe’s eyes settle on the worn logo, and he feels a familiar exasperation creep over him.

“Tell me that’s not my shirt.”

Fran hesitates for a moment before answering, “I’d love to.”

“Are you wearing anything under it?”

Another pause, too long to be interpreted as anything other than the negative that it is. Fran’s lips purse, and she tilts her head like she’s considering the question. “Well…”

That’s all Babe needs to hear. He holds up both hands, doing an about-face before he can see any more than he needs to. If Fran is standing there half-naked in the shirt Babe left lying around the living room this morning, chances are that Bill is just inside the living room – probably less decent than Fran, filthying up the couch they all share.

It’s par for the course for his friends at this point, but Babe is still disgusted.

“Oh my god. I’m moving out.”

“Good luck finding someone else who’ll take you,” Fran calls out to his retreating back. Then, after a beat – “This shirt is really soft! What detergent do you use?”

Babe’s bedroom door slams behind him. He never gets his glass of water.

* * *

“Are you wearing my shirt?”

In the hazy morning light, it’s hard for Babe to make out much; but the figure of Gene standing over the coffee maker, wearing nothing but an oversized Phillies t-shirt, is impossible to miss. For a second Babe isn’t convinced he’s really awake. It would be all to easy to dream of a sight like this.

Then Gene turns around, smiles at him, and Babe knows this is no dream at all. “Do you mind?”

In spite of himself, Babe feels a grin spreading across his face. He sidles into the kitchen, not bothering to flick the light on, and loops his arms around Gene’s waist. Gently, he presses Gene back against the counter and leans in to capture his lips.

Babe’s mouth is still dry. Crust stings the corners of his eyes. The both have morning breath, and Babe’s half-awake brain makes everything feel hazy and out of focus. 

But he knows the contours of Gene’s lips as well as the back of hand. The taste of him, the hand cupping his cheek, the eyelashes fluttering against his own – this is all very, very real. The best way to wake up is with Gene’s lips on his, Babe decides.

When they pull back, Babe can feel a small flush on his face. Gene’s lips are still quirked, like Babe’s told him a funny joke, but his eyes are gut-wrenchingly gentle.

“G’morning to you too, cher,” he mutters, and Babe grins.

His boyfriend can wear his clothes _any_ time he wants.


End file.
